


pieces

by museaway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel POV, Confusion, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Gorgeous fanart by armellin, M/M, Mention of torture, Mind Control, Personal Favorite, Post-Purgatory, Purgatory, Reunion, Seasons 4-9, The Crypt Scene, Watching Someone Sleep, Wings, how SPN might look if Destiel were canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2155236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel loved humanity because it was God's will. He did not understand why until he met Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Personal Space

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jad/gifts).



> This is a series of loosely connected moments in Cas's POV, because I wanted to see what the canon universe would look like if Destiel were canon. I might add on to it in the future, but I marked it complete for now.
> 
> [writing playlist on 8tracks](http://8tracks.com/museaway/pieces) | [inspiration board on pinterest](http://www.pinterest.com/museaway/spn-pieces/)
> 
> Available [in Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3264584)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been only months, but Dean’s face already carried so much more than the weight of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after 4x16, _On the Head of a Pin_

Dean called from a rundown motel room in Vinton, Iowa that smelled of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. Castiel’s vessel registered faint notes of both as his wings closed behind him and stirred the air around his face. It was not a pleasing combination.

The room was dimly lit, nearly indistinguishable from any other motel room the Winchesters rented. One of the room’s two lights had burned out. A metal box under the window rattled and expelled heat. The walls were deep green; the color was darker along the floor from years of grime. Affixed to the inside of the door was a crooked diagram indicating which direction to walk in the event of fire. Someone had burned a cigarette hole into it.

The beds were draped in floral spreads, tangles of purple and red flowers that seemed incongruous with the otherwise ugly space. Dean sat on the edge of the bed closest to the door, bent over his knees. It was possibly due to exhaustion or possibly frustration—Castiel did not understand enough of human behavior to know which. Sam was not in the room. Castiel heard the shower running and divined his location. He straightened and kept his arms at his sides.

“Hello, Dean,” he said.

“Think you can get these damned flashbacks to stop?” Dean asked. His voice was rough. He motioned to his head and didn’t meet Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel stilled. His thoughts drifted to Alastair, to blood bubbling up from his throat, to a vial of holy water clenched in Dean’s fist just weeks ago. “I regret what you had to do,” he offered. He _did_ regret it, even though Dean’s involvement had been necessary.

“Can you do anything or not?” Dean asked darkly.

Castiel could not remove the burden Dean would face, could not erase the role he must play in the apocalypse, but he could give him this: a few moments of peace. He approached and stood before Dean’s knees, touching the five fingers of his vessel’s right hand to five points along Dean’s temple and cheek. Dean winced.

He had not touched Dean like this since Hell, since Castiel raised and reshaped him, stitched the torn fragments of his soul back together. It had been only months, but Dean’s face already carried so much more than the weight of Hell. His soul was young and luminous, one of the most beautiful Castiel had ever seen. Soon it would be fractured, irrevocably altered when Michael assumed his rightful vessel.

He concentrated on Dean’s pain until it was his own, until it bled from Dean’s soul into his grace, and he observed Dean’s facial muscles visibly relax.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbled and exhaled through parted lips.

“It isn’t permanent,” Castiel explained, “but it will provide temporary relief.”

He dropped his hand from Dean’s face but remained standing before him. There was dirt along Dean’s hairline, dried blood caked beneath his fingernails and smeared claw-like across his face. Beneath the blood were shadows underneath Dean’s eyes. They were not bruises, likely signs of fatigue. Castiel wondered when Dean had last slept.

“There’s this thing called personal space,” Dean groused. He gripped his hands together tightly on his lap. “Ever heard of it?”

Castiel frowned and blinked, then dropped his eyes to his feet, noting that he stood mere inches from Dean’s legs, looming over him. Dean had asked a question, but the anger in his tone struck Castiel as a command rather than an inquiry. Castiel was standing too close by human norms. He immediately backed up until the back of his knees touched the opposite bed, but he didn’t sit. He pulled up into his shoulders and stared down at Dean.

“Is this better?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said. His voice was no longer harsh, merely tired. “It’s just, you do that to the wrong person...” He turned away and began to root through a black duffel bag.

Dean’s pain threaded through Castiel’s essence, ran through each vein in his vessel, skated along his extremities, pushed up against his grace. He discerned it reach his wings, flow through each to the tip, until they burned like hellfire. He flapped to cool them, extending them to their fullest expanse. The breeze ruffled Dean’s hair, caused him to lift his chin and look back at Castiel.

_I carved you into a new animal, Dean. There’s no going back._

He perceived himself torturing; he perceived himself _enjoying_ it. Castiel did not shudder but bore the anguish with clenched teeth. He opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—to find Dean still looking at him. His forehead was again creased.

“You okay?” Dean asked.

“I’m fine,” Castiel told him as Dean’s pain continued to pace. He smelled the pungent tang of demon blood, heard the wet slash of a knife through flesh. The inhuman screams resonated almost as loudly as the angelic chorus. He failed to block them.

_And finally you said, “sign me up.”_

Dean yawned and rubbed a hand over his face. Castiel noticed that his forearm was bandaged. He had never known of humans who became injured as often as the Winchesters. He could not prevent it, but he could help. The wounds were superficial, unlike the injuries Dean sustained from Alastair. It would take only the span between heartbeats to heal him. He took a step forward and reached toward Dean’s arm, but Dean jerked away from him.

“It’s fine,” he said. His voice was low and dark.

“What’s the purpose of needlessly carrying pain?” Castiel asked.

“It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

“What about Sam?”

“What about him?” Dean snapped.

“Is he injured?” Castiel asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Not critically,” Dean said, his tone shifting back to neutral. In the bathroom, the water shut off. Dean cleared his throat and stood up, removed his shirt and threw it on the floor next to the bed.

“I’m grabbing a shower,” he said and stepped around Sam, who came out of the bathroom in a towel and plume of steam. Dean closed the door firmly behind him.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam said, sounding surprised. His hair was wet, slicked back from his face. He was a beautiful human. Castiel liked him, liked them both, a great deal.

“Hello,” Castiel said. Sam was nursing his right side. He likely had broken ribs. Castiel healed them with a touch.

“Thanks,” Sam said genuinely. He placed a hand over the area where the pain had been the greatest, rubbed it, then let his hand fall away.

“What did you fight?” Castiel asked.

Sam pulled on a loose gray t-shirt and shorts. He didn’t turn away as he dressed and answered, “Rogue vamp, pretty nasty one. Nice to get back to the basics, though. Only took a couple hours to track him, and there were no signs that he was part of a nest.”

“Good,” Castiel said. “I hope they don’t give you any more trouble.”

Sam pointed to a six pack positioned at the center of the table. “Beer?” he offered.

“No, thank you,” Castiel said. Sam motioned to the second bed. Castiel interpreted this as an invitation to sit down, so he lowered himself onto the edge.

_As he breaks, so shall it break._

“How is Dean?” he asked.

“He’s coping,” Sam said. “What they want us to do, it’s...”

“Overwhelming,” Castiel supplied.

“Yeah.” Sam frowned and drank, allowing his head to fall back against the headboard as he swallowed. Castiel wondered what it must be like to experience thirst, how his vessel might process the sensation. To have such physical needs was inconvenient. Castiel’s father was an extraordinary creator, but Castiel did not understand certain aspects of humanity or why his father had selected them.

“How’re _you_ feeling?” he asked.

“Okay,” Sam said with a shrug.

“Sam, what you’re doing with the demon blood—”

“Look, I had to,” Sam interrupted. “I knew Dean wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t gonna sit back and let him get killed. And it’s a good thing I showed up when I did.”

“Your timing was fortunate,” Castiel agreed. “If you hadn’t intervened, Uriel’s plan would’ve worked.”

“I’m sorry about Uriel,” Sam offered.

Castiel didn’t say anything.

Again, the shower switched off. When the door opened, Dean entered with a towel and a frown.

“You’re still here?” he asked.

“I was talking with Sam,” Castiel replied, wondering if he had overstayed.

“You get those ribs fixed?” Dean asked Sam, who tilted his beer in Castiel’s direction. Dean took a shirt and pants from his bag and threw them on the bed. He turned his back before he dropped his towel and pulled on the shorts.

“You know, Cas,” he said when he glanced over his shoulder. Castiel was still looking at him. “If you’re gonna stare at my ass like that, you’d better be prepared to do something about it.”

Castiel frowned, uncertain what Dean meant, and returned his attention to Sam.

“Let Castiel heal your arm,” Sam snapped.

“It’s fine,” Dean shot back. “Besides, I’m sure he’s got better things to do.”

_The first time you sliced into that weeping bitch, that was the first seal._

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed. “I am needed in Heaven.”

“See?” Dean said smugly to Sam and pulled the covers back.

“I will await your call,” Castiel said.

“Bye,” Sam said. “Thanks again.”

Dean muttered, “Later” but didn’t look up from the magazine he pulled out of somewhere.

Castiel did not understand human behavior. He opened his wings.


	2. Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stood watching Dean for hours, long after the dryer stopped, until the sky outside grew pink.

They had worked together for a year when Castiel ordered a slice of pecan pie for Dean.

Dean was occupied in the diner’s bathroom. It was a Tuesday in Wellington, roughly forty miles outside of Cleveland. Sam was still asleep. Castiel was uncertain why Dean had called him, but Dean had let Sam rest, jutted his head toward the window where the Impala was visible, and drove the short distance to the diner where Castiel now sat.

The table between them was well-worn, dark brown and sticky. The silverware was rolled in thin paper napkins, the plates set on white paper placemats with a Greek key trim. The air was cloying and sweet with a stench of cigarette smoke. Outside, the rain turned the dirt parking lot to murky puddles.

Dean scratched his chin. He didn’t ask why Castiel had ordered the pie. Castiel didn’t know himself, precisely, but its very presence appeared to make Dean happy. That, Castiel decided, was reason enough. He recalled a time on Earth when pie was served as a meal and consisted of heavily spiced meat. This pie contained little nutritional value, but the smell of cinnamon and toasted tree nuts appealed to Castiel’s vessel. Dean stared at the pie with a partially open mouth and tongued the inside of his cheek.

“Pie’s usually something you eat for dessert,” he commented. He looked from his plate to Castiel, who pulled up into his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I’m not up-to-date on breakfast protocol. I know pie is something you enjoy.”

“Grab a fork,” Dean instructed, motioning to the unrolled silverware two inches from Castiel’s joined hands.

“I’d rather watch you eat it.”

“Whatever gets your rocks off,” Dean said.

When Dean brought the first forkful of pie to his lips, Castiel was fascinated. Dean ate noisily and purposefully, as if the pie might disappear if he didn’t consume it within a designated timeframe. Sure enough, in under a minute, Dean stabbed the last bite.

“You sure?” he asked, holding it up like an offering. It would be simple for Castiel to lean across the table and accept it.

“I ordered it for you,” Castiel said instead and watched with interest as Dean’s mouth closed around the fork. His mouth twisted as he chewed. Dean wiped away crumbs with the back of his right hand; just before he did, Castiel detected the genesis of a smile.

Dean didn’t smile often. He carried the weight of Hell with him. It would never fully leave him, just as Castiel’s handprint on Dean’s shoulder would never completely vanish. It would fade with time, as Dean’s memories of Hell dulled, but it would always be a part of him, just under his skin, like a brand. God could have pulled Dean from Hell but had assigned the feat to Castiel. It had not been his first passage to Hell; it would not be his last. Dean was destined for a greater purpose than most humans. He was a Righteous Man. It had been an honor to raise him. God could have assigned an archangel, but He selected Castiel’s garrison. Now it was Castiel’s charge to watch over Sam and Dean, until they had fulfilled their purpose, according to God’s plan.

Dean swallowed and drank the remainder of his coffee. He checked the time on his cellular phone, sat back, and scratched his groin. He regarded the waitress by sweeping his eyes from mid-thigh to her face, then winking. Castiel observed all of this quietly, content to sit in this diner in the rain and watch Dean drink coffee.

“You coming with us on the next one?” Dean asked, meeting Castiel’s eyes. Dean’s were brown and they were green. His stare was intense and scrutinizing. Outside, the rain fell harder.

“I’ll come when you call me,” Castiel said. His own voice through his vessel was low and gravelly. He wondered how it sounded to Dean, why it mattered.

The waitress brought the check on a torn slip of paper. He knew that she had rough elbows and lived in a small house with a dog. Dean paid with cash and left coins behind on the table as gratuity.

+

It occurred to Castiel twenty minutes later, as he watched Sam and Dean climb into the Impala in the motel’s parking lot and drive away, that the slice of pie had cost extra. The Winchesters did not have money. Castiel turned a blind eye to Dean’s gambling and deceit that funded their lifestyle. He was uncertain how much a slice of pie cost, so he re-entered the diner to inquire.

He spoke to another waitress behind the counter who wore pink lipstick and had long, dark eyelashes. Dean had not winked at her. She held a coffee pot in her left hand and hadn’t spoken with her sister in over five years.

“If I order one slice of pie,” he asked, “what will my total be?”

“Dollar eighty, plus tax,” she said.

“Would two dollars be enough?”

She nodded and motioned to the dessert case. “What flavor can I get you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Castiel said, straightening. “He already finished eating it.”

The waitress (June, according to her name tag) quirked an eyebrow at him. He gave her a closed-lipped smile and exited the diner, barely discerning the cold raindrops sting his vessel’s face as he stared down the road. He felt in the pockets of Jimmy’s trenchcoat and pulled out a fist of crumpled dollar bills. He smoothed them in his palm and selected two, tucked the rest away.

He nearly extended his wings, caught up to the Impala. It would be simple to remain invisible to Sam and Dean, to slip the dollars in Dean’s coat pocket, and return to Heaven. He had appeared in the car before without their knowledge, when they had first met and neither Dean or Sam trusted him. He regretted what happened to Pamela, but he had warned her. He still wondered why Dean had not been able to recognize his angelic form. Castiel had anticipated that; maybe it was irrational, but it had been his wish since he first saw Dean, that Dean would be able to accept his nature as an angel. It had seemed likely, considering whose vessel Dean would be.

Castiel folded the two dollars in his hand, placed them carefully in his other pocket, and waited until nightfall. Dean didn’t call. Castiel traversed the United States, listening for whispers from Heaven.

+

It was another three days and nights before he heard from the Winchesters, this time from Sam, who gave his location as a house on Lake Michigan.

“Angry spirit,” Sam hissed through his teeth. He pressed both hands into his thigh, which bled heavily from a deep wound above his knee. Castiel healed him, watched Sam slump back against the wall, chest heaving with relief and exhaustion.

“Man, do I prefer you to Dean’s first aid,” Sam said gratefully.

“Where is Dean?” Castiel asked, taking in his surroundings. The house was not occupied, likely a seasonal residence. There was a couch near a large, dark picture window (he could just see the water’s surface in the moonlight) and remnants of a few decorative items (shards of green glass, splinters from a once-tall wooden clock) the spirit had destroyed.

“Babysitting the fire,” Sam said. “He didn’t want to take any chances.”

“That is wise,” Castiel agreed, noting a faint orange glow at the window’s left side.

“We’re already here, might as well stay the night. Pretty sure the washing machine is hooked up,” Sam said, standing up and pulling his shirt over his head, stepping out of his jeans. “You want me to wash your coat for you?”

“That isn’t necessary,” Castiel said. Sam shrugged and went into the next room. He switched on the light, and Castiel heard the sound of hinges, the soft thud of cabinet doors closing.

“We’re in luck,” Sam called. “There’s even detergent. See if Dean’ll let me wash his clothes.”

It was an instruction. Castiel frowned, but he went outside, following the light from the fire. He found Dean with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring hard at a small pile that burned at his feet.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said as he approached.

Dean looked at him, scowled, and lifted his chin in acknowledgement. Castiel came to stand directly beside him, so their shoulders nearly touched. Since he was unable to share Dean’s mental space as he did with fellow angels, the physical proximity was a comforting approximation. He knew it made Dean uncomfortable, but Dean didn’t correct his behavior, so Castiel remained where he stood.

He angled his chin down to match the angle of Dean’s head, frowned at the fire. It was too small to be a skeleton.

“Lock of hair,” Dean explained, as if he could read Castiel’s thoughts, “from a scrapbook.”

“Sam is washing clothes,” Castiel announced.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean said. He stamped out the remaining flames with the heel of his boot, until the fire was merely a faint glow of embers and twists of smoke in the dark. He started for the house without so much as a glance over his shoulder to Castiel, who followed him wordlessly.

Dean prepared dinner in a spare pair of shorts from the Impala’s back seat while Sam washed their clothes. His chest and legs were bare. He ransacked the kitchen cabinets, turning up two cans of vegetable soup and a box of pasta. He heated both cans of soup with an equal amount of water, and poured the pasta into the pot. It was shaped like small, curved tubes—macaroni, Sam called it. They ate the entire pot, slurped from twin bowls at the kitchen counter. Sam washed the dishes.

“Dude,” Dean said. “Why bother?”

“This is someone’s _house_ , Dean,” Sam said with reproach.

Castiel considered pointing out that they had entered this house without permission, that Sam had used several appliances and eaten food that did not belong to him. But he reasoned that Sam was aware of these facts, and that to leave unwashed dishes in the sink was another matter entirely, a violation only a human could comprehend.

“Whatever,” Dean countered, pushing past him. “I’m getting a shower.”

Sam looked apologetic when he shut off the water and laid the dish towel over the edge of the sink, presumably to dry.

“He hasn’t slept much,” he offered.

From somewhere within the walls, Castiel heard the squeal of water through pipes. Dean had obviously located the home’s shower facilities, and was making use of them. Castiel was no longer needed, but his presence was not immediately required elsewhere. He waited for information on Raphael’s position. He perched on the edge of a dark green sofa, watched Sam pick up a remote control and switch on the television.

Castiel had not watched television often, but the few times he had watched it were in Sam and Dean’s company. He preferred Sam’s taste in nature programming to Dean’s medical dramas, which seemed to place little emphasis on proper medical care.

“How come you guys aren’t stationed in every hospital?” Dean had asked him once. Castiel did not have an answer for him.

Sam seemed content to allow Castiel to sit with him. He patted the couch beside him, but Castiel stayed where he was.

“Do you ever relax?” Sam asked, amused. He flicked his beer cap onto the coffee table, then propped his feet up and crossed his ankles. “Sure you don’t want a beer? You ever had one?”

Castiel thought for a moment before replying.

“Dean once took me to a den of iniquity,” he said. “I sampled it there. I didn’t care for it.”

Sam coughed and swallowed, setting down his beer. “Hang on,” he said into his fist. “Dean took you to a whorehouse? When?”

“When I thought that I would die, when we attempted to trap Raphael.”

“Wow,” Sam said calmly, but his eyes were wide. “What, a final-night-on-Earth kind of thing?”

Castiel nodded slowly. “Dean was determined to, in his words, ensure I didn’t die a virgin. He also mentioned people named Bert and Ernie, but I don’t understand the significance.”

Sam laughed; it came out through his nose in a snort. “Wait ’til Bobby hears about that,” he said. “Did you have a good time?”

“We were only at the establishment for eleven minutes,” Castiel recounted.

“How come?” Sam asked.

“Dean said that I shouldn’t have engaged Chastity in a conversation about her father. She found it offputting.”

“So you didn’t, uh...?” Sam made an incomprehensible hand gesture.

“She screamed,” Castiel said. “Dean and I left through the back door.”

“Can’t believe he never told me that,” Sam said.

Castiel did not understand why it was something Sam would have wanted to know, but he had obviously found the story entertaining, so Castiel was glad he had shared it. It was pleasant to sit with Sam. Castiel enjoyed his company, though it was different from the way it felt to share Dean’s company. That was puzzling. Castiel did not have an explanation for the discrepancy.

They watched a program on caribou migration until, with a whine, the pipes went silent. Dean came downstairs a minute later in a blue towel. His chest was still bare, now flecked with water. Castiel’s eyes flickered to the tattoo over his heart, regarded it for a beat, then shifted to Dean’s face. Dean scowled at him.

“There’s a king sized bed upstairs,” Dean said, turning his attention to Sam.

“Are you bragging or saying I should take it?” Sam answered.

“Dude, your freakish body won’t fit on a twin,” Dean said and threw a couch pillow at him.

“I’m only three inches taller than you,” Sam pointed out.

“Offer’s ending in five, four, three—”

“Alright,” Sam said with a laugh and got up from the couch. “Will you switch the clothes to the dryer?”

“No problem,” Dean said.

“Thanks. Night,” Sam said and headed for the staircase. He called over his shoulder, “Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Sam,” said Castiel.

He remained on the edge of the couch, with his hands resting on his thighs. He registered faint discomfort in his vessel from the way he was sitting, but he didn’t adjust his position. Dean sank onto the couch and immediately changed the channel. Castiel recognized the interior of a hospital and frowned.  

He watched Dean instead, fascinated by the ritual he used to relax. Dean yawned and leaned back. He propped his feet up on the coffee table, scratched his stomach, scratched his chest. He reached inside the towel and scratched there too.

Castiel brought a hand to his face, examined his fingernails—Jimmy had kept them neatly trimmed, so Castiel maintained them—and applied them to his face. He scratched down his left cheek, to the curve of his jaw. He repeated it twice, then examined his hand again. Nothing had changed.

“Why do you do that?” he inquired.

“Do what?” Dean asked with a glare.

“You’re scratching yourself,” Castiel clarified. He tilted his head to better meet Dean’s eyes. “Why?”

“My skin itches,” Dean said.

“Itches,” Castiel repeated seriously.

“What, you don’t experience that either?”

Castiel shook his head. “What is it like?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “It _itches_ , and you gotta scratch it, or it keeps itching.”

Perhaps it was similar to the discomfort Castiel experienced from an unanswered prayer, but he didn’t say so. He nodded and trained his eyes on the television.

Dean fell asleep sitting up. Castiel thought of waking him, to remind him that he had promised Sam to switch the laundry. Dean’s eyes were closed, his head dropped back against the couch, his mouth open slightly. He appeared untroubled, unhurried. Castiel remembered what Sam had said, that Dean hadn’t been sleeping well, so he remained still and didn’t wake him.

When the washing machine beeped, Castiel rose quietly and went to stand before it. He understood the function of such a machine, but he had never operated one. He opened the porthole door on both machines—the empty one must be the dryer, by default—and transferred the wet lump of clothing from the first to the second unit. He closed the door and waited for something to happen.

It didn’t. Castiel frowned, but the machine revealed none of its secrets.

He squinted at the labels beside a series of dials and buttons. “Start,” one said. “Dryness Level,” said another. “Power.” He pressed that one, which caused five lights to glow green and the number 40 to appear. He reasoned that this translated to 40 minutes—he had no sense of whether that was adequate, but he presumed the machine knew best—and pressed “Start.”

The dryer began to rumble and spin. Castiel stood back and watched it for several minutes. The clothing rode along the sides to the top, then fell, only to rise again. He found it soothing, preferable to watching television, which still played in the living room. He thought of Dean on the couch. Between that thought and the next, Castiel was again standing over him.

God did not demand more of His children than they could handle, but Castiel believed He demanded too much of Dean Winchester. It caused doubt to flare in him, and shame, that Castiel’s faith in his father was not absolute. His father had left, just as Dean’s father had left, yet they both staunchly loved their fathers, fought to protect their brothers. It was a tremendous thing to have in common, which perhaps explained why Castiel was so drawn to him.

He stood watching Dean for hours, long after the dryer stopped, until the sky outside grew pink. Dean had slept through the night and would wake to clean, dry clothing. Castiel experienced a flicker of pride for the small role he had played in that.

There were whispers of further unrest in Heaven. Castiel no longer possessed his full signal, but he was able to detect the strongest voices. Raphael was on Earth, they said. Castiel must find him.

The two dollars felt irrationally heavy in his pocket. He left them on the coffee table beside Dean’s phone.


	3. Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel had not visited for months when he manifested in Dean’s back yard.

After Sam fell, Dean had gone to Lisa, and it did not feel right to interfere.

Castiel missed Dean’s prayers, but Dean had never been a devout man. Surely the lack of prayer was not a sign of waning faith—Dean was a good man, if not a pious one—but evidence that Dean was content in his new life. Castiel had no reason to interrupt that. He visited sometimes, often at first, but his visits grew fewer and fewer over the course of a year, concurrent with the decrease in prayers, until one day they ceased entirely.

Humans had prayed since they first discovered their voices, since they learned to fear something greater than themselves. They sent their pleas skyward, begging to be heard. Castiel had received a countless number over the millennia; he would continue to receive them until he ceased to exist. Humans lived and died; their voices went silent. There were a few whose voices he missed, ones he so desired to hear again that he visited them in Heaven, but he did not yearn for them as he did for Dean’s.

It was easier to stay away. The apocalypse had been averted. Dean didn’t need Castiel any longer. Castiel had existed for millions of years without Dean Winchester, and he would go on existing without him. His superiors had been right: he had become too close to Dean and allowed his regard for Dean’s character to overshadow his duties. It wouldn’t be so with his next charge, if he was assigned one. It wouldn’t be so with Dean, if they worked together again.

He heard Sam’s prayers, but he did not answer them.

Castiel didn’t understand what he felt, _why_ he felt—that had never happened, not in all of his existence. He had rebelled, he had chosen, but he had never felt as he felt now. It was unsettling, perhaps shameful, and human.

It was, above all, _human_.

Castiel was an angel.

+

He told himself that Dean was happy.

Of course Dean was happy. He had a home, a woman who cared for him, a child who wished to emulate him. Castiel would often perch on top of the refrigerator or the garage’s pitched roof and watch Dean toss a football to Ben, show him the proper way to turn a wrench, prepare something called barbecue they ate on outdoor chairs. Ben occasionally stole a taste of Dean’s beer, and they both pretended not to notice.

Lisa was a good woman. She had taken Dean in without question, without judgment. Castiel wished blessings upon her, and yet when he saw her standing next to Dean, his reaction was irrational. She should not be standing there. He was certain of it, but he could not name the thing that crept up the back of his vessel’s spine, to his neck, set his stomach clenching. He wanted to retch. He looked at the picture Dean’s life had become, and he held no part in it.

He had no right to any part in it. Dean was _happy_.

But Castiel was staunch in his conviction: Dean did not belong here but with Sam, with the Impala around and beneath him. He did not belong in the humdrum of Cicero. The absence of a smile on Dean’s face seemed to confirm it.

Dean obviously felt the same, because they soon listed the house with a real estate agent, hastily packed its contents, and relocated to Michigan.

+

Castiel had not visited for months when he manifested in Dean’s back yard. It was autumn on Earth. It was cool and breezy in Battle Creek. His coat flapped around his ankles as he folded his wings, but he did not reveal himself.

Dean was raking leaves. He held the rake in his hands and moved it across the lawn methodically, gathering the fallen leaves into piles. It was a strange practice. Given time, the leaves would break down on their own and return to the earth, but humans were never satisfied with waiting. They took too much pleasure from instant gratification. It was one of their species’ greater flaws.

But to see Dean engaged in such a task, something innocuous, something domestic—it did not feel rushed. It did not feel like an act of impatience. The leaves fell, and Dean raked the leaves. He was alive and whole, settled and uninjured. He mourned for his brother, but Castiel would not tell him about Sam. He would not take this life from Dean.

Castiel longed for him. He had never longed for anyone, but he missed the weight of Dean’s hand on his shoulder, the cutting remarks, even his exasperated expressions when Castiel failed to understand Dean’s references. The longing followed him as he followed Crowley away from Dean, away from the place where he was in Dean’s favor. If Dean found out about the deal ( _when_ , Castiel corrected himself; when Dean found out), he would never trust Castiel again. Dean didn’t trust easily. This Castiel knew, recalling Dean’s manner toward him when they first met, how Castiel’s introduction was answered with a knife in his vessel’s chest.

He would be lucky if Dean even wished to stab him after this, but it was necessary. Castiel needed the souls Purgatory would provide, and he needed Crowley to access them. This was so much bigger than him: it was about saving the world. He hoped, one day, that Dean would understand that.

He never stepped out from among the trees, and when Crowley leered at him across his desk and purred, “So, _angel_ , do we have a deal?” Castiel thought of Dean raking leaves.

+

Sam was calling, as Sam often called, but there was something not right about Sam ever since Castiel raised him from Hell. His prayers were empty. He called, and Castiel did not answer.

The sound of Dean’s voice was an unexpected balm. It rang all around him. The ringing was a vibration in his grace that Dean’s voice caused. He knew the connection between them was unprecedented, but he hadn’t realized that Dean left such an indelible impression. It tugged at his very essence, deeper than his grace, into the very matrix of his composition. Castiel soaked in the sensation, allowed it to continue—

_Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to Castiel to get his feathery ass down here. C’mon, Cas. Don’t be a dick. We’ve got ourselves a plague-like situation down here. D’you...do you copy?_

—until he found himself standing in a second-story apartment, looking at a bemused Dean Winchester over Sam’s shoulder.

It was the first time Dean had seen him in almost a year, but Castiel knew that he appeared no different. His vessel would never age as long as he occupied it. It travelled with him now, even to the reaches of Hell.

But Dean was a year older. His face was flushed with healthy color, likely the result of dietary changes. He radiated his usual urgency and annoyance, but his energy was less vitriolic, more contained.

Sam gaped at Castiel over his shoulder, jaw tight with disbelief. But Dean’s eyes tracked him: a hunter’s eyes. He would demand to know why Castiel had not responded to Sam’s prayers, and Castiel would have to provide an answer. There was so much to say, but no words came to him, no words in English or Enochian that could fill the chasm between them. So he said the only thing he could:

“Hello.”

+

Castiel gathered loose crumbs with the edge of his fork. They sat in a diner, just the two of them and a slice of apple pie. Dean squeezed the crumbs between the tines and brought them to his mouth.

“Why the hell’d you stay away?” Dean asked. His voice rang with darkness, shades of distrust. But he bore his gaze into Castiel’s, until Castiel dropped his chin, flicked his eyes to the rumpled beige of his coat. He could smooth it with a touch, but he merely fingered a fold, a spot of grease. Dean believed that Castiel had abandoned him. Castiel would not tell him about the leaves.

He recalled the vibration in his grace that Dean’s prayer had evoked, of how human he felt in Dean’s presence. He did not deny it, reaching a hand to the center of the table. He pressed the pad of his thumb to a crumb on the edge of the plate, held Dean’s gaze as he sucked it between his lips.

“You were happy,” he lied.


	4. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching Dean sleep from such a close position allowed Castiel to observe several things he had not noticed from the end of a bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during 7x23, _Survival of the Fittest_. This story parallels canon from this point forward, but it obviously features universe alterations.

 

Castiel got up from where he had been seated quietly on the cabin’s stairs, observing. He approached Dean slowly, looked from his face to the remains of Bobby’s flask. It smoldered on a bed of coals.

“Dean,” Castiel began, but Dean cleared his throat roughly. Sam angled his head down.

Their faces had glowed as Bobby burned; the fire had been a brilliant color, orange like the sunset over the ocean. Castiel used to stand on the beach often, millennia ago, to watch the sun drop beneath the horizon. He would remain there all night, until the sun rose again the next morning to repeat its path across the sky, just as God commanded it.

“So,” Dean said and bumped Castiel’s shoulder. His voice was flat. “Meg, huh?”

Dean tilted his head toward Meg, who had reappeared only minutes before and had taken up residence on one of the cushioned chairs. He looked back to Castiel with a funny sort of frown. Castiel ticked back several seconds and remembered that Dean had asked a question.

“That is Meg,” Castiel confirmed, frowning, tilting his head. Surely Dean could recognize her?

“So where’d you do it,” Dean continued, gathering the vials, arranging them on the edge of the table. Castiel noticed that he did not look at the flask. “Supply closet?”

Dean’s hair was spiked in the front. It reminded Castiel of the hairs on a honeybee’s legs that allowed it to collect pollen. A beehive ran on order. Dean would make an ineffective bee. Castiel imagined him with a bee’s wings, but they morphed to long, long stretches of black feathers. When Castiel returned to himself, Dean was eyeing him curiously.

“You think that I slept with Meg?” Castiel asked.

“Dude, you couldn’t even score with a _demon_?” Dean asked, incredulous, and swept ash from the table onto the cabin’s floor.

“That’s racist,” Meg reminded him flatly. She sat sideways on the chair and raised an eyebrow. “And presumptuous.”

Castiel hummed to himself and studied the bone—it belonged to Sister Mary Constant, who had possessed a great appreciation for ladybugs but, sadly, couldn’t abide bees—resting in a pool of fallen blood. A third of it belonged to him—well, to his _vessel_ , but of course his vessel was, in a sense, _his_ now. Jimmy no longer occupied it, so Castiel supposed ownership fell to him.

“You’ve gotta get more experience, buddy,” Dean muttered.

“Are you offering to help?” Castiel asked, confused. Dean’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, man,” Sam said and choked out laughter. “Cas, I missed you.”

“We should play Twister,” Castiel declared. Twister was a game, and the brothers were surely in need of a diversion from their emotional upset. Meg could play too.

“One game, and only so you’ll shut up about it,” Dean said and motioned to the vinyl mat Castiel had smoothed over the rough floor several hours ago.

“I promise,” Castiel agreed.

“Guys,” Dean said in a voice loud enough that Sam and Meg turned to look at him. “Come on. I’m not gonna be the only one playing.”

Sam bent his head over the laptop he had resting on his knees. Meg grinned slyly and said, “We’ve already played that game, haven’t we, Clarence?” and turned away.

Castiel screwed up his face in confusion. He and Meg had never played Twister, but he did not say so. He bent down and spun the arrow hopefully. “Right hand red,” he said.

“There’s gotta be something else we can play,” Dean said. “Something that isn’t a pseudo orgy.”

Castiel spread his hand on the first red circle, flattened his palm against the vinyl. He trained his eyes on it, imagined it was the center of a flower, and that he was a worker bee. Though it was not necessary, he breathed in and out, in and out—an easy, even rhythm. His palm trapped his body’s heat against the mat.

Dean sighed and lowered himself to a crouching position, rested his knuckles on the red circle five spaces away.

“Happy?” he muttered.

Castiel spun the arrow in response. “Right foot yellow,” he read.

He positioned his foot on the second yellow circle, one column to the right and two spaces up from his hand. Dean maneuvered his body around, so that his foot occupied the mirror of Castiel’s selection. He knelt behind the row of green circles. Castiel knelt at the side of the mat, next to the red and blue rows, right leg crossing his body. Together, red and blue made purple. He thought of lavender fields.

“Right hand blue,” he recited.

He obeyed his own instruction, shifted over one space so his foot and hand were on adjacent rows. Dean’s hand was just two spaces away from his, flattened on a blue circle.

There were so few blue flowers. Castiel’s favorite was lungwort, a particular specimen he had once seen in Spain two thousand years ago. When its petals unfurled, the flower resembled a circle if he looked straight down upon it. If Castiel were a bee, that is the flower he would select, round and blue like the circle Dean’s hand occupied.

“Cas,” Dean said thinly. “Any time now.”

“Left foot red.”

Dean easily stretched his leg to the side and planted it on the second red circle. Castiel twisted so that his back was to Dean, and his arm was between his legs. He imagined it touching soil.

“Nice angle,” Dean muttered. Castiel heard Meg’s laughter.

“You should have taken off the trench coat,” she called. “It’s hiding your best asset.”

“My wings?” Castiel guessed.

“Your ass,” she clarified. “Isn’t that right, Dean?”

“Just spin the damned arrow,” Dean said roughly.

When they fell into each other at the center of the mat four minutes later, Sam snickered. Castiel held onto Dean’s arm and side as a laugh escaped him.

“Thank you, Dean,” he said, smiling. “I had fun.”

“Super,” Dean huffed. “Get the hell off me.”

Castiel obliged him, opened his wings and returned the game to the cabin’s only closet. He positioned the box so its edge was parallel to the shelf. The sense of order pleased him. Nature was orderly, which is perhaps why he found he liked it so much. He marveled at his Father’s creations, at something as simple as the pattern on a pineapple, the structure of honeycomb. When he flapped back to the main room, Dean was slumped low on the couch, a beer in hand.

“Got you one,” he muttered and pointed to the bottle on the coffee table.

Castiel settled next to him. The couch was old and sagged in the middle. Castiel could not help but lean against Dean. Their legs touched along Castiel’s right side. He shifted apologetically, mindful of how much Dean valued personal space, but only slid back into him. He tried again, shifting in an attempt to move over several inches, but Dean put a hand on his leg, stilling him.

“Stop squirming,” he ordered. His hand remained on Castiel’s leg for a second, a hot pressure through his hospital clothes. He withdrew it, wrapped both hands around his beer, and breathed in deeply.

“Nice as it’s been steeping in sexual tension all evening, I should rest up before my stunt driving spectacular tomorrow,” Meg announced.

“Demons don’t sleep,” Sam reminded her.

“You’re the expert,” Meg said with a wink before she vanished.

“You really didn’t sleep with her?” Dean asked.

“I did not,” Castiel replied.

“I’m sure someone in this room is glad to hear that,” Sam said to his computer.

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean said. It was not the usual, playful tone he used with Sam. Castiel tilted his head and waited for Sam’s reaction, but Sam merely closed the laptop and stood.

“I think Meg’s got the right idea,” he announced. “See you guys in the morning.”

“Night,” Dean said.

“Goodnight, Sam,” Castiel offered.

Sam smiled at him and crossed the small cabin. Castiel sniffed his beer. He had never liked the flavor, but he drank to appease Dean, who cupped a hand around the back of his neck and rubbed it.

“You coming with us tomorrow?” Dean asked, clearing his throat.

“Of course,” Castiel said. The beer left a bitter aftertaste. He moved his tongue over his teeth to help clear it.

“Wasn’t right without you, man,” Dean said after a long silence.

“In what way?”

Dean shrugged.

“You drink too much,” Castiel pointed out helpfully.

“Digging myself an early grave,” Dean said with a sardonic laugh and took a long swig from his beer. “Saving those monsters the trouble.”

“You kept my coat in your car,” Castiel said after a while.

“Wasn’t the first time you’ve been brought back.”

“No,” Castiel said, considering. “You kept it in the trunk.”

“I wasn’t gonna leave it on the dash.”

The trunk was safe, protected, even on the stolen car. By extension, perhaps Dean had wanted to protect what was left of Castiel. The thought made him smile.

“It makes me happy that I matter to you, Dean.”

“Course you matter,” Dean said. “You and Sam, you’re—”

He finished his beer and got up. The couch felt suddenly huge.

“I’m sorry about Bobby,” Castiel offered.

“You want another?” Dean asked as he crossed to the refrigerator.

“No, thank you,” Castiel said and did not speak of Bobby again.

He watched Dean open a new beer, set the bottle cap next to the sink with a pleasant metallic ring, lean a shoulder against the wall. His stomach fluttered, as it often fluttered when he looked at Dean. It had never happened with any other human. He had asked Meg about it, and she had suggested he ask Dean. He had not.

“You and Sam are what remains for me,” Castiel told him.

Dean tilted his head back and drank and drank, his throat bobbing with each swallow. Castiel traced the line of his neck, the bend of his elbow, the length of his torso. Dean’s t-shirt lifted in the front and Castiel could just make out his stomach. His mouth was suddenly, inexplicably watering. It was not the beer.

From somewhere deep inside of him, Lucifer laughed.

“You’re not real,” Castiel told him.

“You have no idea what you’re feeling, do you?” Lucifer asked, but it did not sound like a question, rather a statement of fact. Lucifer was older. It was logical he would know things Castiel did not, even though this wasn’t Lucifer, not really. He watched as Lucifer took the seat Sam had previously occupied.

“Cas?” Dean asked. He was sitting next to Castiel again with a hand on his wrist. Dean’s hand was rough and warm.

“You should sleep,” Castiel said, staring at Dean’s hand. Dean had chewed his fingernails. They were torn and uneven at the edges.

Dean sniffed. “Probably,” he agreed. “You okay?”

“I am...”

Lucifer cackled again.

“...fine,” Castiel decided.

“Can you hear him right now?” Dean asked.

“Yes.”

“He thinks you’re crazy,” Lucifer confided, leaning forward over his knees. “He wishes you were still locked up in that madhouse.”

“You’re not _real_ ,” Castiel repeated. Lucifer made a thoughtful face.

“What is real, brother?” he posed and ran one finger down the cabin’s wall.

“Dean,” Castiel said. “Dean is real.”

“It’s all about Dean, isn’t it?” Lucifer said. He positioned a boot on the edge of the coffee table. Castiel’s face hardened.

“He’s not really here, Cas,” Dean was saying. “You know that.”

Castiel nodded at his lap. Dean was still touching him. Touching was important to humans, and yet Dean usually voiced aversion to it. Something must have changed for Dean to allow Castiel to remain this close to him, but he didn’t know what.

“What are you gonna do while we sleep?” Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head. “I thought I would go to Europe,” he said. “Maybe France, to see the lavender.”

“Look, if you wanna stay,” Dean said. “Just this once, I won’t complain if...you know.”

“If I watch over you.”

Dean frowned. Lines formed between his eyebrows, but he squeezed Castiel’s arm. “Sure,” he said finally. “Or you can try to sleep yourself.”

From all around him, Lucifer laughed. Castiel pretended he could not hear it. He didn’t require sleep, not exactly, though his body was draped in exhaustion. It would be pleasant to lie down next to Dean for a few hours, to have Dean’s body next to him as a constant reminder of the tangible world.

“Where are we sleeping?” Castiel asked. He knew that Dean had insisted Sam take the cabin’s only bed.

“Whitefish’s finest,” Dean answered and indicated that Castiel should stand up. Dean lifted the cushions from the couch, placed them on the floor in a makeshift mattress.

“Grab the one from the chair too,” he said.

Castiel did. The cushions formed a small but efficient square for sleeping that, Castiel estimated, would likely be more comfortable than the cabin’s wood floor. Dean kicked off his boots but kept on the rest of his clothing. He lay down on half of the cushions.

“I assume you can figure out this part,” he said.

Castiel lowered himself to the floor and carefully positioned his body so it matched Dean’s pose in reverse. They lay face to face, with an arm beneath their necks and heads for support.

“Now what happens?” Castiel asked.

“We stop talking and sleep.”

“I see. Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night,” Dean said and closed his eyes. Castiel thought of flowers closing.

+

Watching Dean sleep from such a close position allowed Castiel to observe several things he had not noticed from the end of a bed. Dean’s eyelashes were long and dark. He had stubble on his chin and along his jaw. His eyes darted back and forth under his eyelids as he dreamed.

Castiel knew he was dreaming because their elbows touched, and he was able to leech images from Dean’s dreamscape. He dreamed of Hell; he dreamed of Bobby; he dreamed of Sam; he dreamed of Castiel.

Castiel was with him in Hell, tall and formidable, shielding him from the heat. Dean’s eyes were wild, face and body blood splattered. Castiel gripped Dean’s shoulder tightly and—

They were in the Impala with Sam, moving along a dark road. Dean’s heart rate slowed. Castiel smoothed Dean’s dreamscape with his grace, imparted pleasing images: a plant just pushing through the soil, tiny ants marching over a peony bloom.

Dean’s limbs jerked as he dreamed, but these motions ceased when Castiel sent an image of Heaven: an autistic man’s eternal Tuesday afternoon. He would like to bring Dean there one day. It was perhaps Castiel’s greatest personal wish, that Dean Winchester would go to Heaven, and they would share eternity.

Castiel never closed his eyes to sleep, only to blink as necessary, but he dutifully closed them when he heard Sam’s footsteps approaching. It seemed prudent to do so. He peered from under his eyelashes as Sam took down a glass for water, drank, wiped his mouth, and went back toward the bedroom. He paused next to the configuration of cushions where Dean and Castiel lay.

Sam smiled. He left the room, only to return a few seconds later with a blanket he spread over them. Chuckling, he went back to bed.

Dean stretched under the newfound warmth and rolled closer. By morning, his head was next to Castiel’s, and Lucifer had not spoken all night.

+

Castiel’s eyes were open when Dean woke up. It was still dark outside. He groaned and rolled into Castiel’s body, stretching languidly.

“Morning, baby,” he mumbled.

His voice was thick and rough with sleep. The sound of it made heat and excitement flare inexplicably in Castiel’s center. Castiel was not, had never been, an infant, but he assumed Dean was using the word as an endearment. Castiel had heard him call the Impala by the same word, which was also neither a baby (it was older than Dean) nor sentient. He knew the importance the Impala held for Dean, and deduced that he, through Dean’s use of a term reserved for it, must too mean something, despite what he had done. Warmth flooded Castiel’s vessel, to its very core. He draped an arm over Dean’s side.

“Good morning,” he replied happily. He immediately regretted speaking, because Dean stiffened and pulled away. Castiel jerked his arm back. Dean created a significant distance between their bodies that filled with Lucifer’s phantom laughter.

“Sorry,” Dean said and pressed the heel of his palm into his eye. “Must’ve been dreaming.”

“I enjoy being this close to you,” Castiel offered. To demonstrate, he returned the hand to Dean’s side, over his ribs, over the Enochian protection he’d etched into them.

“Cas,” Dean said slowly, forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows knit together. He licked his lips. “You know I don’t—I don’t play for that team.”

Dean’s meaning wasn’t clear to Castiel. It was likely a popular culture reference, but he wasn’t familiar with Earth sports, though polo held a certain appeal because of the horses.

“We are Team Free Will,” Castiel reminded him, hoping this would ease Dean’s discomfort. “You’re the one who named us.”

Dean opened his mouth like he might speak, but nothing came out. His lips were pink and cracked. Castiel wondered what they felt like to touch, if they would be warm or unpleasant against his fingertips. He moved his hand from Dean’s side to his face and traced his lower lip. Dean shuddered. Castiel was afraid he would get up, put distance between them again, but Dean squeezed his eyes closed. His nostrils flared as he took several deep breaths.

“Fuck it,” he swore and brought his hands to Castiel’s face. He framed it between them, and Castiel tasted his lips.

Dean’s action surprised him. Angels did not kiss. It was a purely Human practice, and Castiel had only done it one other time, with Meg. It hadn’t felt like this, like he was falling. He would gladly fall for Dean—had already fallen—who slid his fingers into Castiel’s hair, cradled the back of his head. His cheeks and chin were rough with stubble. Castiel blindly explored their dips and curves with his fingertips.

In the morning, they would go to Sucrocorp. They would locate Dick Roman, and they would kill him. They might survive, and they might not. Castiel tried not to imagine a future without Dean, who exhaled in warm, moist puffs against Castiel’s cheek and groaned low in his throat.

Castiel frowned and pulled back. Dean’s face was flushed a deep, appealing red that extended down his neck. His eyes were closed.

“Dean?”

It was a moment before Dean opened his eyes, looked at Castiel. But he immediately lowered them to Castiel’s chin, his ear, the wall behind him, the door to the room where Sam was sleeping. Castiel considered what he knew of Dean’s past sexual partners, his limited knowledge of human sexuality.

“You’re concerned that my vessel is male,” he guessed.

“Actually, I’m more concerned that it’s a _vessel_ ,” Dean mumbled. His hands were still buried in Castiel’s hair, though they had gone still. “It’s just you in there, right?”

“Why does it matter?” Castiel asked.

“Pretty sure saying ‘yes’ to an angel of the lord wouldn’t hold up in court over something like this.”

“Why?”

“Cas,” Dean whispered. “Just trust me.”

“Jimmy is in Heaven,” Castiel promised. “I’m going to kiss you again.”

Dean nodded minutely, closed his eyes when Castiel leaned toward him, smoothed a hand from his cheek to his neck, his shoulder, down the length of his arm, encircling his wrist.

They kissed more gently than before. Dean’s lips were pliant and soft, his body warm and familiar, tucked against Castiel’s, imparting honor and goodness. God was an extraordinary creator.

“Am I doing this correctly?” Castiel asked.

“You’re doing great,” Dean murmured. Castiel could feel the smile against his lips.

Extraordinary indeed.


	5. Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel kept watch. Dean slept as the evil around them stalked closer.

Castiel knelt beside a stream.

The water was gray, and so were the trees that stretched long, long arms of spindly branches, fracturing the light. It streamed down to the leaf-littered ground in columns. Curves of white rock broke the surface of the water, which washed over them and the rocks that made up the riverbed, but it too was unclean. He cupped it in his hands, rubbed them together, rubbed them over his face. The water cleansed but did not purify, did not remove the taint of this godless place.

Behind Castiel, the wind moaned through the trees. The wind here was as cold and desolate as the land was colorless. He could not risk resting here long. The Leviathan would pick up his trail at any time. He had avoided them for two days, but he knew they grew closer, felt their wickedness stir his grace, just as they inevitably sensed him.

Dean's voice came to him through prayers, hundreds of them: beautiful words he did not deserve ( _Where the hell are you, I'll find you, we'll find you, we're going home_ ) and did not answer. Castiel ached for him, but Dean would not understand.

Castiel must remain in Purgatory. He deserved to remain after what he had done to Heaven, after what the Leviathan had done to Earth because of his hubris. His chest ached where they had attempted to claw their way out. Nothing of them remained inside of him; they had escaped entirely when his vessel was obliterated, but he would always feel them, he supposed: a flesh memory. Dick's death had forgiven nothing.

There were no other angels in Purgatory. He felt to its edges when he first arrived but detected no grace but his own. Fearful for Dean's life, he had run like a coward. He could only hope to ward off the Leviathan long enough for Dean to find a way out. And if there was no way out, Castiel would do what he could to ensure Dean's continued survival.

+

Dean should have saved himself, not searched Purgatory for a fallen angel, but of course he did; of course he searched for Castiel; of course he pulled Castiel to his chest and embraced him. He took Castiel's face between roughened palms and kissed him hard.

Dean was dirty, his clothes imbrued with blood, a grisly catalog of what he had faced in his search for Castiel: vampire, human, werewolf, Leviathan. Purgatory had altered him, hardened him, but it had not polluted his soul. Castiel perceived its radiance flowing from Dean's every pore.

"Told you I'd find you," Dean said into his mouth.

"Dean," breathed Castiel.

When the wind blew next, it did not feel as cold.

"I prayed to you," Dean said, pushing a hand into Castiel's hair. "Every night."

Castiel leaned into the familiar weight of his fingertips. "I know," he mourned.

Dean stiffened and pulled back just enough that Castiel witnessed the hurt in his eyes, the flicker of his eyelids at the realization that Castiel had heard him, had received Dean's prayers, and done nothing.

"You _know_?" Dean challenged. He stepped several feet away, curling his hands to fists. His eyes glazed over, like a storm. The wind again blew cold, and that's when Castiel noticed the man at the edge of the clearing.

He was tall and bulky, with a wolfish grin—a vampire by the smell of him. He watched them with dark amusement, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with it.

"Dean," Castiel warned and stepped in front of him, placing his body before Dean's as a shield. But Dean huffed and walked around him, stopped halfway across the clearing.

"Cas, this is Benny," he said thickly. He jutted a thumb over his shoulder. "He knows the way out of here. Benny, this is Cas."

"I gathered as much," Benny said. His voice curled in a southern drawl. "You wanna tell the class why you ran off and left our boy alone, hot wings?"

+

Castiel led Dean into the stream, held Dean's hands beneath the water and washed them.

"It's not safe for you to be with me," he said, only Dean shook his head, cupped a wet hand over Castiel's cheek.

"I'm not leaving here without you," he snapped. "Understand?"

From the determination in Dean’s voice, unwavering focus in the green snap of his eyes, Castiel knew he did not speak in hyperbole. If Castiel refused to go, then Dean would remain with him in the wilds of Purgatory. He could not risk that. He nodded mutely—a lie, but it was for Dean's benefit.

It was not a human's charge to rescue an angel. It was not Dean Winchester's charge to rescue Castiel, but he trudged ahead despite Castiel's warning, despite Benny's protests, toward the location where Benny claimed the escape hatch was located.

He was all too aware of Dean's anger. It radiated off of him in terrible, red waves. Castiel did not defend himself. He deserved to be the focus of it. They had been cast here together, and Castiel had run. It didn't matter that he'd done so to protect Dean. That much was obvious in the stiff way Dean carried himself, in the way he turned his attention toward Benny.

It was foolish to be jealous of a vampire. He claimed to be providing a means of escape. It was only rational that Dean would follow him, but Castiel heard poison in his every word. He coveted the way Dean looked at him, the silent conversations that passed between them. The first day they trudged through the gnarled, gray forest together, Dean and Benny would often pause, lock eyes, speak without words. Dean would nod, and they would both pull out their weapons in preparation for an attack.

They felled three monsters that way, moving in tandem. Castiel shook with rage every time Benny cast a narrow look in his direction, a silent accusation: the monsters were drawn to his grace, just as they were drawn to Dean's humanity. But Benny was right. As long as Castiel moved through Purgatory with them, they would remain a target.

Still, Dean did not change his mind. When Castiel suggested he remain in a thick patch of forest as a decoy, Dean rounded on him.

"No one's getting left behind," he snarled.

He didn't look Castiel in the eye again until nightfall.

+

Castiel was a celestial wavelength trapped in Purgatory. He had no physical needs in this place, just as Benny had no thirst and did not have to feed. But Dean was human, so he required food and rest. He watched Dean strain against a slab of rock, tilt it up enough that he could see what lay underneath. The ground crawled with life.

God had created Purgatory to be self sustaining, which meant that it had an ecosystem of its own, including the insects that Dean snatched up. When he crunched the first one between his teeth, he didn't even wince, just chewed quickly and swallowed. He wiped his mouth over a filthy sleeve.

"What?" he snapped when he noticed Castiel watching him.

Castiel shook his head. _I'm so sorry_ , he wanted to say, but he didn't think Dean wanted to hear it.

"They made me eat a lot worse in Hell," Dean said around another mouthful.

When the land grew dark in what passed for night, they stopped in a dense stand of trees.

"Safer off the ground," Dean muttered as explanation. He scaled the trunk until he looked down on Castiel from a sturdy branch overhead. Dean wedged himself between the trunk and the branch, drew his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them. Castiel wondered how many trees Dean had climbed in this place, how many bore witness to his whispered prayers.

"Just a couple hours, Dean," Benny called up to him. "Just until you're good to walk again."

"Two's good," Dean said against his legs.

"What can I do?" Castiel asked Benny.

"Keep watch," Benny told him. "You hear anything with those angel ears of yours, you holler."

"I understand," said Castiel.

It was never warm in Purgatory, but at night with the light gone, it was as cold as the deepest winter on Earth. Castiel thought of Dean huddled against a tree trunk in tattered clothes he had worn for a year.

"I'm going to sit with him," Castiel declared as lightning flashed overhead. He would have a better vantage point from a tree. Benny looked at him and shook his head. In the distance, something howled before thunder shook the ground.

"You do what you gotta do," Benny said, and he smiled for a reason Castiel did not understand. Castiel climbed the tree easily and settled next to Dean, who lifted his head to glare at him.

"You're cold," Castiel explained.

"I'm fine," Dean said and flipped up his collar, pulled his sleeves over his wrists.

" _Dean_ ," said Castiel. He spoke with reproach and love.

Dean met his eyes, hard and hurt, and neither of them looked away for a while. Castiel heard the unspoken prayer, offered up in the silence:

_You left, you sonofabitch. People always—_

_Look, nothing in this place hurt me as much as you did by leaving._

"I know," said Castiel.

_Never do it again._

"I won't let you fall," Castiel vowed and held Dean tightly against his side. The wind picked up, and Dean leaned into him: trembling, vulnerable, human. To earn Dean's trust again would be as arduous as shifting mountains, to reshape them into gently sloping hills, tamed by eons. It would require time, but it was all Castiel had, until they reached the hatch. He pressed his lips to Dean's temple, to the crust of grime, extended a wing over his back as shelter.

"What the hell?" Dean mumbled, cracking open an eye. His fingertip traced the edge of an unruly feather. Castiel shivered and drew Dean closer against him.

"I'm able to manifest my wings on Earth, but they would be in the way. Here they serve a purpose," he said into Dean's hair. It was filthy with dirt and blood, but Castiel caressed it with his cheek. He could clean them both but would not risk draining his energy here, not for such a thing, though he wished to. He wished to. He pressed his wing forward into the warmth of Dean's palm. Dean grew bolder, combed his fingers in the direction the feathers grew.

"They're black," Dean observed through a yawn. He stroked Castiel’s wing a final time, then hugged his arms around his torso and shook from cold, so Castiel drew the wing more tightly around him. He had never considered their color. "Smells like rain." Before he had a chance to reply, Dean's limbs twitched, and his breathing evened out.

Castiel kept watch. Dean slept as the evil around them stalked closer.

  
_commission by armellin [[x](http://www.museaway.com/post/101288233000/armellin-commission-for-museaway-to-her-future)]_

+

Castiel had always known Dean was a hunter, but Purgatory eked out something primal. He grew savage and unforgiving. There was ruthlessness in his eyes. Whatever softness he'd possessed on Earth was gone. Castiel was a soldier, but he regretted that Dean had to become one.

He watched Dean slash through a Leviathan's neck without blinking and wipe away the blood that flecked his cheek. Castiel touched the blood where it had dried as Dean slept the following night, tucked away between a cut of gray rock and Castiel's shoulder. Dean's cheeks were stubble-rough, wind whipped. If they ever got out, if they got away from this fouled land, Castiel would smooth them.

The snap of a tree branch to this right alerted Castiel to Benny's presence. Benny looked from Castiel to where his hand curved over Dean's cheek. He laughed softly to himself and shook his head.

"All makes sense now," he drawled.

"You saw Dean kill the Leviathan," Castiel said, but he eased Dean further under his wing. "This is its blood."

"Right," Benny said and walked away to continue patrolling.

The following night, Dean huddled against him for warmth. Safe beneath the arc of feathers, he curled his fingers into Castiel's shirt, buried his face in his neck.

"Sleep," Castiel ordered, so Dean did.

When Benny woke him two hours later, Dean wiped his blade on his pants and helped Castiel to his feet.

"You need more rest," Castiel insisted.

"We’ve gotta keep moving," Dean said.

Distant lightning illuminated the sky, backlit the forest. The trees seemed to loom over them, press in.

Benny motioned to the path, adjusted his cap, fisted his blade. "Let's head out."

+

Dean killed eight monsters before they stopped for breakfast. There was blood on his lips as he chewed. Castiel looked away and prayed and thought of flowers in ugly motel rooms.

+

It was another three days before they neared the escape hatch. It was still night, and there had been no shelter, so Dean had not slept. He stumbled up a steep outcrop and scrambled for hold.

"We have to stop," Castiel said as he watched Dean clumsily brush dirt from his pants, yawn like a silent roar.

"We've gotta keep walking," Benny argued. "They're closing in on us."

"He needs rest," Castiel said more firmly, loudly, enough that Dean overheard.

"Cas, we can't stop now," Dean said. "It ain't safe."

"You're exhausted," Castiel countered.

"I'll sleep once we're out of here, alright?" Dean said, clasping Castiel's upper arm. His smile was broken. Castiel saw its fragments with each lightning flash.

"I'll carry you," Castiel offered. Dean rounded on him.

"Fuck no," he spit out.

"You cannot return if you die," Castiel told him harshly. He did not say _we_. But Castiel read Dean's defeat it in the softening of his face. He glanced to Benny, who was thirty feet ahead of them on the path.

"Fine," Dean said gruffly and stopped long enough for Castiel to lift him from the ground, hold Dean against his chest. He unfurled his wings and cupped them underneath Dean's body.

"That's freaky," Dean declared against his neck, slumping boneless, but what Castiel heard was _thank you_.

+

Dean asked for water when Castiel shook him awake, flicking a tongue over chapped lips. They were dirty. It pained Castiel to see Dean take part of this unholy place within him. He kissed Dean briefly, desperately. Soon, he would not kiss Dean anymore. There had been so few, and most of them in Purgatory. It was the memory of those kisses, of Dean, that fueled him.

"We're almost there," he whispered. Dean's eyes were closed, but he managed to move his head, brush his fingers along Castiel's jaw, weakly kiss him back. Castiel relaxed his wings, and Dean lowered himself to the ground.

"Yeah," he croaked in time with a streak of lightning. It blazed and crackled across the sky as thunder.

They walked until it was daylight, until Benny announced that they were close to their destination. There was a change in the air, a spark of energy, a familiar wavelength. It felt like home, like Heaven. For the first time since Dean embraced Castiel by the water, Castiel believed the hatch might exist, that Dean might escape. He held that hope close to his grace, let it consume him, carry them up the craggy slope.

When they reached the top, Dean looked at him with fierce determination, through a haze of blood.

"We're going home," he said.

Castiel framed Dean's face with dirty hands. He would have done anything to wash the filth away.

+

Once the escape hatch closed, had swallowed Dean and transported him back to Earth, Castiel felt a part of his grace wither.

His arms were empty, his shoulder cold. His wings cradled nothing. His fingers clutched the phantom memory of Dean's hand reaching for him through the hatch, through the swirling gate of light. Pushing Dean away was the greatest gift Castiel could bestow, yet a selfish part of him wished that Dean had stayed with him, or that Castiel had possessed the courage to forgive himself and leave.

He wanted to lie on the wet ground, to bring his knees to his chest, to weep. He thought he now understood what humans meant by heartbreak. He longed to vacate this body, for his energy to be dispersed throughout the universe, because he would never see Dean again. Castiel would remain in this land of abomination, and Dean would live out the remainder of his life and be granted peace in Heaven. He and Sam would live in their own eternal paradise. Castiel would not be a part of it.

But Dean was safe. Dean was safe.

He repeated this to himself as he retreated to the mountains to hide from the Leviathans’ shrieks, to beg forgiveness from God, who might not even be listening.


	6. White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no reason for Castiel to sleep.

There was no reason for Castiel to sleep, but tonight he closed his eyes to forget the lightning storm.

The storms in Purgatory had never bothered him until Dean left, but he saw the remnants of Dean's smile in the broken silhouette of trees. He extended his wings, hoping to block the light, but they no longer sheltered anyone but himself. The lightning charged the air; it crackled and snapped around his wing tips. He withdrew them, folding them together across his back, and shuddered.

The cave's floor was wet and cold. He angled his back to the entrance, so he could not see the burn of lightning across the gray.

He was not alone in the cave. There were others that crowded him, had been crowding him. They grew fewer in number with each day, held on to his arms, dragged him between hills, held their gleaming swords aloft and split the sky. Castiel had possessed a gleaming sword, once.

He thought of Dean asleep on Earth, safe within a motel room. Sam was asleep in the next bed, and Castiel peered in through an uncovered window. The window was broken into panes that separated Dean's image into rectangles. Castiel pressed close, regarded Dean through a single pane, so close that his breath left a tattoo of fog on the glass.

Dean appeared as Castiel remembered him in the cabin in Whitefish, asleep without the threat of ambush. Overhead, the sky erupted in a bolt of lightning that shook the ground. Dean's eyes fluttered open, and they met Castiel's. He pushed up on an elbow as his lips formed the shape of Castiel's name.

 _Cas_. _How_ —?

He felt guilty for waking Dean, even a copy of him within a dream, so he raised a hand in greeting and farewell, splayed his fingers into a starburst, and imagined the cave where he had hidden undetected for five nights, but he never returned to it.

+

There was no reason for Castiel to sleep, but he closed his eyes and woke up in a white, white room. He was alone. There was no lightning, and he did not close his eyes again.

+

There was no reason for Castiel to sleep, so he sat motionless in the white room and blinked and found himself walking down a stretch of wooded highway, past a sign advertising a campground. He wondered if he was still insane. It had been months, by Earth's reckoning, since Lucifer had last spoken, but Castiel could still access that part of himself, loosely cackling, no matter how deeply it was buried.

He cast his head side to side to determine his location. The road was wide and flat. It was clearly the twenty-first century, and the air smelled of Earth, not the pungent, decaying stench of an abandoned children long forgotten. The fog of it hung on him: on his clothes, filthy from a year living as an outcast; on every hair and whisker that grew untamed. He had not realized the extent of his body's condition while trapped in that realm, but moving through the fresh air stirred the foul scents his body had trapped. He was certain that he was back on Earth, but if he was wrong, he didn't dare expend what energy he had for something as trivial as cleanliness. No. He must wait and watch and think.

An engine rumbled in the distance. It grew nearer; he heard the increase in pitch and ascertained that it drove at a high speed, would pass him within a matter of seconds. He turned his head just in time to catch the smear of black before the car was ahead of him, pulling away, then slowing abruptly with a scream of tires.

Dean stared at him through the open window of the Impala, shock evident in the dropped curve of his mouth, the frantic notes of prayer:

 _Cas, is that...can you hear_ —?

The room was white and very cold. His eye throbbed with unknown pain. He rubbed it, rubbed away a trickle of blood, but he kept his eyes open and thought of green.

+

There was no reason for Castiel to sleep, though his eyes grew heavy for reasons he did not understand. They continued to throb. He collected the blood in his palms and traced his own name on the floor, on the cold white floor beside his feet. It seemed terribly important to remember his name, but he could not say why.

The room that held him had no door, but a series of windows where shadows watched him. Sometimes the shadows entered (he did not know how), but he never remembered their faces.

+

There was no reason for Castiel to sleep. Without sleep, he could not dream, but he dreamed that he stood behind Dean in a mildewed motel bathroom. Dean was bent at the waist, splashing water on his face. He dried it with a ratty towel.

And then, it was not a dream. Dean whipped around, splayed a hand over Castiel's chest, over his heart.

"Jesus," Dean breathed.

"Hello, Dean," said Castiel.

"How?" Dean asked.

"I don't know." It was not a lie. The last thing he remembered was...was...

He remembered a damp cave floor and the reverse impression of lightning behind his eyelids and collapsed in Dean's arms.

+

"How the hell did you get out of there?" Sam repeated, as Castiel stood before them. Dean and Sam sat on opposite sides of a round table underneath the motel window. Castiel shook his head. He knew they were unsatisfied with his answer, but it was the only one he had. He dropped his gaze to his clothes, his bloodstained hands.

"I'm dirty," he murmured. He felt his cheeks redden and retreated into the bathroom.

Ordinarily, he would have used his grace to clean his body, but he indulged himself with a water shower, watched the taint of Purgatory wash away in the dark swirl down the drain. The motel's cheap soap caused his skin to dry and stretch uncomfortably, but he smelled human again. The itch of dirt and sweat was gone.

He came back into the bedroom in a towel. Dean sat alone at the table, chewing the inside of his cheek, clicking a pen open and closed, open and closed.

"Sammy went to grab dinner," he said.

Castiel lowered himself to the bed where he had envisioned Dean sleeping—he remembered that, if nothing else—and decided he must not have been dreaming after all. He clasped his hands together and let them hang between his knees. Dean sighed and got up, padded over to him, stood in front of Castiel's legs.

"I don't understand," he said.

Castiel curved a hand over Dean's hip, brushed under his shirt with a thumb. He shook his head. He didn't understand either. He had watched Dean vanish into the vortex, knowing there was no way out, not for him. He should not be here.

Castiel let his arm fall.

Dean sat down beside him. The mattress dipped under their combined weight. Their sides touched, so Castiel turned his head to kiss Dean's mouth, but Dean stopped him, caught his wrist mid-air. Castiel hesitated and listened, but Dean offered up no prayers. His eyes were stone—Dean didn't trust him—but he lurched forward and his mouth tasted like home.

Castiel willed their clothes away and held Dean against his chest. Physical intimacy was not so different from receiving Dean's prayers, another way of being connected to him. This was Dean's body pressed against him, around him, instead of his voice merging with Castiel's grace. It was another sign of faith. This was how Dean prayed, with his hands in Castiel's hair.

+

They lay quietly in the dark after, Dean's breathing ragged.

The room was silent, but what Castiel heard in the space between breaths was  _I love you, I love you, I love you_.


	7. The Warehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel sat in the backseat of the Impala as it barreled into Oklahoma City, and Castiel stood in a warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Thank you_ to [casblues](http://casblues.tumblr.com/) and [1940sdeancas](http://1940sdeancas.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this chapter!

Castiel curled into Dean’s side in a dark motel room, and Castiel stood in the shadows, in a warehouse, fingers twitching around his angel blade. 

He looked out from behind a staircase, vision separated into rectangles by the risers. Dean walked fifty feet beyond them, his silhouette identifiable by the bow of his legs, the cautious way he stalked forward with a gun in hand. 

_Kill him, Castiel._

His sister's order was straightforward. His instinct was to ignore it; it wasn't right—Dean was sleeping in a motel room outside Oklahoma City; Dean wasn't _here;_ there was no reason for Castiel to harm him—but Castiel advanced because the order said he must. 

“Cas!” Dean cried when Castiel raised his fist.

Dean shifted in his sleep, nosing Castiel's neck and murmuring sounds that weren't words. Castiel gathered him closer and inhaled the scent of home. 

He swung his arm and heard Dean's nose crack, saw red and didn't blink. 

“Cas, Cas, no—” Dean cried as Castiel continued to hit him. Dean stumbled and fell to the hard concrete. Castiel loomed over him and felt nothing as he drove the blade home. 

He jerked upright in bed, gasping for breath, and craned his neck to look down at Dean's face. It was concealed by the pillow, but Castiel lowered his mouth and shakily kissed the corner of Dean's lips and his cheek and his ear, kissed him until Dean stirred and turned his face enough to kiss back.

Tears pricked at Castiel's eyes as Dean held him. 

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Castiel, and he moaned when Dean gently bit his neck, then soothed it with his tongue. 

When he whispered into Castiel's ear, “Don't wake Sammy,” there was laughter in it, and Naomi spoke again: 

_Kill him, Castiel._

Dean lay heavily on top of him. Castiel memorized the slow grind of his hips, the changes in his breathing, and Castiel looked out from behind a staircase as Dean kissed his mouth open. He wouldn't hurt Dean. He wouldn't hurt Dean. 

_Kill him, Castiel._

He began to shake. He could not disobey an order, but he could not follow it. He tightened his grip on the blade in the shadows, wrapped his arms around Dean and held him desperately under the sheets before flapping away. 

+

He waited until daylight, standing invisible at the end of Dean's bed, watching. Dean couldn't see or sense him. He slept on his back with both arms under the dingy sheet, mouth just parted, breathing noisily. His hair was flattened and stuck to the side of his face. In the next bed, Sam snored into a pillow. 

Castiel didn't trust himself. His memories conflicted. He had no memory of leaving Purgatory, but there was a room, a white room, and echoes of pain. But he wouldn't hurt Dean. He would kill himself first. 

The brothers woke and dressed. Castiel read disappointment on Dean's face as he surveyed the empty half of the bed, but the voice giving orders had gone silent for now. 

He materialized in a diner two miles down the road. Sam was picking at his eggs. Dean drummed his fingers lazily on the white table and spun the bowl of creamer cups around and around. The diner was small, just ten tables and a counter. It had vibrant red walls, red like Dean's blood. The bowls and plates were rimmed with black and white checkers. The floor was gray like the warehouse's concrete floor and needed to be swept. 

“I'll get the check,” Sam announced and got up, indicating his seat. Castiel dropped into it unhappily. 

“Hello,” he said. Dean didn't look up from his plate. 

“What the hell happened this morning?” he asked.

“I was summoned to Heaven.”

“In the middle of—” Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “Cas, I'm having a hard time believing anything that comes out of your frigging mouth.” He looked out the diner window. 

They were quiet for several seconds. Castiel shifted uncomfortably and twisted his hands together on his lap. His eyes swept over the counter, to a familiar-style glass case. “Would you like pie?” he offered hopefully.

“No, I don't want any fucking pie,” Dean snapped. “I want you to be honest with me, you dick.”

Castiel blinked, and Naomi leaned across the desk toward him.

“Tell him nothing, Castiel,” she directed. “You know nothing.”

Doubt pooled in him, poisoned him, and he could only shake his head sadly when he was once more face-to-face with Dean.

“I'm sorry.”

Dean pressed his lips together. 

“Top secret stuff, huh?”

Castiel nodded once. 

“Ready to hit the road?” Sam asked, reapproaching the table and shoving his wallet into his jacket pocket. 

“Give us a minute,” Dean said and tossed him the keys.

“I'll start the car,” Sam sighed and went outside. 

Through the open window, Castiel watched Sam unlock the Impala and climb into the driver's seat, heard the engine growl and turn over. Castiel felt compelled to speak.

“I’m sorry for leaving this morning,” he said. “I care for you. Your well-being is essential to my own.”

Dean sighed and pushed his plate to the center of the table. On it was one strip of bacon, a puddle of hot sauce, the remnants of scrambled eggs. Hesitantly, Castiel lifted the bacon between two fingers.

“An olive branch?” he asked.

“It's _bacon_ ,” Dean deadpanned, but there was a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth. 

Castiel took a bite and chewed thoroughly. It tasted of molecules, and the molecules tasted of penance. 

+

Castiel sat in the backseat of the Impala as it barreled into Oklahoma City, and Castiel stood in a warehouse.

He pored through thick, dusty books with Sam, who scratched notes onto a flimsy notepad with a cheap ballpoint pen he nicked from the motel last night, and Castiel stood in a warehouse. 

He straightened his tie and flipped his FBI badge the way Dean taught him (“It's in the wrist”), confidently following Dean and Sam into the crime scene, and Castiel stood in a warehouse. 

He kissed Dean against the side of a convenience store, next to a rusting vending machine, night air on his face, and Castiel stood in a warehouse. 

Castiel stood in a warehouse and he raised his blade. He stabbed Dean through the heart as Dean kissed him, as Dean whispered against his lips, “You did good today.”

“You’re ready,” Naomi praised.

\+   

Castiel's vessel inhaled the sweet stench of mildew in the crypt and the sharp, iron tang of Dean's blood. His knuckles were wet with it. 

Dean moved slowly, like he was encased in something heavy and thick, mouthing words Castiel could not hear. Through his vessel's eyes, he watched Dean cradle the tablet against his chest. Castiel swung his fist in response and didn't blink, intent on taking it.

_Bring me the tablet._

“Cas,” Dean spoke, distantly. 

He stumbled backwards and held out his hands to ward off another blow, but Castiel raised his arm. He struck Dean again, the force knocking Dean into the wall. He crumpled to the ground but scrambled to his feet, advancing. 

“Cas, you don't have to do this,” he said no louder than a whisper.

“I—I won't hurt Dean,” Castiel stammered through a fog, hands firm against Naomi's desk. Her office, usually a blinding white, was tinged pink and purple like the sunset, like the bruises that rose on Dean's skin where Castiel hit him. 

“Yes, you will,” she declared. “You _are_.”

Dean struck him, his motions growing quicker. Castiel snapped Dean's arm without thought and heard him cry out, softly, like an echo. But Dean continued to resist, shoving the tablet out of Castiel's reach.

“You want it?” he challenged, rising up on his knees, muted as if he spoke underwater. “You're gonna have to kill me.”

 _Bring me the tablet_.

“Do it,” Dean snarled. Castiel heard him clearly now. “Come on, you fucking coward, do it!”

Castiel struck Dean's face with the handle of his blade and heard his nose break, hit him until Dean didn't struggle anymore. 

“Please,” he begged Naomi, sick over what he had done, was doing, but she didn't relent. She repeated his orders. 

“What have you done to me?” he shouted as he struck Dean again, and Dean cried out, “Who's Naomi? Cas,  who's Naomi?”

“I fixed you,” Naomi told him. “ _I_ fixed you.”

“No,” Castiel said, wincing at phantom pain in his eye, the memory of Dean wrapped around him. Dean was a good man. Castiel loved him. He couldn't do this, but Naomi's orders were clear:

“End this, Castiel.”

Dean swayed before him on his knees, his face swollen and bruised. Dean's blood was on his hands and Castiel continued to hit him, even as Dean begged.

“Cas, this isn't you,” he choked. “This isn't you.”

“Bring me the tablet,” Naomi ordered.

A thousand corpses lay unmoving in a warehouse, and Castiel stood in a crypt. He raised his blade above Dean's head, lined up the point and prepared to strike. One blow is all it would take, delivered precisely to his chest, a mirror of Dean's greeting when they first met. 

_Kill him._

He tightened his hold and looked at Dean, at his broken face. 

“Cas,” Dean pleaded. “I know you're in there. I know you can hear me.”

Dean's eyes were wet. Castiel blinked. 

“You have to choose,” Naomi ordered.

“We're family,” Dean said. “I love you. I need you, Cas. _Please_.”

Castiel felt his vessel's hand relax, perceived the clatter of his blade as it hit the ground. The tablet called to him, resonating on the wavelength of his grace. He bent to retrieve it, the stone cool against his vessel's fingers. Light burst forth, illuminating the tablet's markings, and pierced the fog. 

Naomi screamed his name, and then Castiel couldn't hear her anymore.

Dean crouched before him on the crypt floor, battered by Castiel's own hands. He flinched when Castiel reached for him, curled his fingers into Castiel's sleeve in a futile attempt to hold him off. 

“Cas, no,” he moaned. “Cas—”

Dean was afraid of him. Dean was _right_ to be afraid of him, but Castiel caressed his face and healed his wounds with a touch. He dropped to his knees to wait, whispering, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean,” as Dean gulped in air. 

After a moment, he looked at Castiel, who stayed rooted in place.

“What the hell happened?” Dean asked, touching his own face, his once-broken wrist. 

Castiel told him everything, about Naomi and the tablet and a white, white room. 

“She's been controlling you this whole time? Since Purgatory?” Dean asked, the tension easing in his shoulders.

Castiel nodded.

“So that explains your vanishing acts, and all of this?”

“Yes,” Castiel admitted, standing up. He tucked the tablet beneath his arm and helped Dean to his feet, keeping a tight hold on his hand. 

“What about now?” Dean asked. “She still got her hooks in you?”

“No,” Castiel promised, relieved when Dean collapsed against him, murmured into his neck, “What broke the connection?”

Castiel answered with his lips, kissing Dean with reverence, kissing him by choice. Naomi had demanded his decision, and he chose Dean.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I might add additional chapters in the future. Maybe. We'll see how season 11 goes. You can find me [on tumblr](http://museaway.tumblr.com) & [on twitter](http://www.twitter.com/museawayfic).


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